Anew: Awakened Part 22

Time seems to stop or at least slow down profoundly, only to lurch forward suddenly when Ian sits up, waves off the doctors, and gets to his feet. He shouts for his horse and springs back into the saddle.

The crowd goes berserk, stomping, screaming, cheering. The officials confer for a moment, then throw up their hands and signal for play to resume.

It continues to see-saw back and forth until, with the final throw-in of the ball, the tension reaches unbearable heights. The thirty second warning rings as Ian, turning defense into attack, breaks through the opposing team's line and begins an all-out charge down the field. Edward and the other opposing players spur their mounts after him as the blond man moves into position to block them.

Still sixty yards or more from the goal, Ian stands in the stirrups, swings at the ball and rams home the winning point.

The horn sounds, signaling the end of the chukker and the game.

The crowd explodes. If not for the safety barrier around the field, they would be streaming out onto it even before the horses are led off. As soon as they are, the players are surrounded. Ian and Edward, as the captains of their respective teams, meet at the center of the field to shake hands under the cautious eyes of the officials.

Beside me, Adele says fervently, "Thank G.o.d that's over!" She looks as pale and drained as I feel.

As my grandmother chats with friends, I take refuge in the club house where final preparations for the post-game reception are underway. Helene and Marianne are already there. Helene appears to be at least half-way through a stiff drink.

"My G.o.d," she says when I join them, "I'd take that boy's head off if the d.a.m.n ball hadn't almost done it for me."

Marianne nods. Her lovely face is pale and strained. "What was Ian thinking? It's just a stupid game! And Edward--"

Her eyes look bleak. I guess that she is also remembering the moment when my brother almost came off his horse amid a scrum of slashing hooves.

"I take it matches aren't usually so exciting?" I ask because I have nothing to go on other than my own reaction and Adele's dismay.

"Society will be talking about this one for years," Helene says drily. She knocks back the rest of her drink and waves off a server who approaches to offer another. "That's better. I'm not feeling quite as murderous as I was. Now then, are you all right, my dear? You look pale."

Her concern for me raises a lump in my throat. As much as I appreciate Adele and Edward's many kindnesses, Helene is a mother, something I have never known.

I don't let myself think about that very often but a few days ago, I walked over to the park where on my first day in the city I heard the happy shouts of children. They were there, romping in a small playground surrounded by a wrought iron fence and furnished with benches occupied by nannies and a few parents.

I found a seat away from the others and watched the children for almost an hour. They are strange, fascinating creatures, not like miniature adults at all but entirely their own selves. They laugh and cry, pout and smile for the most volatile and mysterious of reasons. Moment to moment, they seem at once so vulnerable yet also indomitable, determined not merely to survive but to thrive and grow.

Thinking of them now stirs the anger and regret I feel at all the lost years adrift in the loneliness and pain of the gestation chamber. But it also reminds me of how grateful I am for the life I have awakened to. I'm determined to live it free of the shadows of the past but I don't underestimate how difficult that is to do. Not just for me but for everyone.

Mindful that Helene is waiting for a response, I manage a smile. "Let's just say that I don't think I have a future as a diehard polo fan."

Marianne laughs and links an arm through mine. "Brothers! What quiet, boring lives we would have without them!"

"I think you mean men in general, my dear," Adele says as she joins us. "The good ones can make life worth living even when they are at their most infuriating." With a nod to Helene, she adds, "As for the bad ones, I say kick them to the curb and make sure they stay there."

"Thanks to the success of this event," Helene says with a smile, "a good many more women will be able to do just that."

"Mother chairs a foundation that a.s.sists women escaping abusive relationships," Marianne explains in an aside to me. "She'll never tell you herself, but she does an enormous amount of good."

I don't ask--because of course I can't--but I have to a.s.sume that Helene's devotion to helping such women stems from her own experience with Marcus Slade. I try to put that together with what I know of Ian--his aversion to hurting women, his need for control in any situation but most especially of himself, his loss of control in the Rolls. And the explosion of aggressiveness that followed on the field.

I'm tempted to believe that Ian's behavior can be explained as a struggle to escape the shadow of the father whose violent nature drove his wife from him. But I can't shake the thought that there is something more. Something I've glimpsed but haven't grasped.

A flurry of activity near the entrance interrupts my thoughts. Edward has just arrived with several other of the players from both teams, all freshly showered and dressed. It would be difficult to imagine a more attractive group of men but I'm too busy looking for Ian to more than barely notice them.

The moment they appear, they are surrounded by the crowd in the club house. Congratulations and commiserations are accepted with equally good cheer from both sides. The fury of the game seems forgotten.

I'm still looking around for Ian when I hear Edward say, "The doctors wanted a better look at his noggin. He should be along any minute now."

A short time later, Ian makes his appearance. He has showered and is freshly dressed in charcoal gray linen pants that hug his slim hips and an open-neck white shirt perfectly tailored for the broad sweep of his chest. A cashmere jacket is hooked casually over his shoulder. His dark, slightly messy hair still gleams with droplets of water. He looks supremely fit, powerfully masculine, and utterly untouched by what happened less than an hour ago on the field.

After accepting the backslaps and congratulations of club members, he joins his mother and Marianne. When I try to meet his gaze, he stares straight through me. He does not give even the slightest acknowledgment of my presence.

The man whose body was driving into mine scant hours ago seems to have forgotten that I exist.

I flush with anger and mortification. Whatever accounts for his behavior--regret, embarra.s.sment or even displeasure with me--it's all too much.

From the first moment I opened my eyes in the floating bed, I've been bombarded with sensations, emotions, experiences, all piling on top of each other without a pause to make sense of any of them. I'm paying for that now.

After another, unreturned glance at Ian, I realize that I'm dangerously close to breaking down.

Fortunately, Edward is nearby, chatting with several people. I join them and touch a hand to his arm.

Quietly, I say, "That was all very exciting but it's left me with a headache. Do you mind if I take the car home?"

My brother frowns with concern. "No, of course not. The driver can come back here afterward. But are you sure you'll be all right? Adele and I can leave now."

I manage a quick smile. "I wouldn't dream of it. I'll be fine. I just need a brief rest and some quiet."

Edward nods, although he doesn't appear totally convinced. He insists on escorting me to the entrance and waiting with me until the car is brought round.

As he hands me into the backseat, he says, "If you're worried about Ian, don't be. He's the most hard headed person I know. Not even that errant ball could knock any sense into him."

I nod but I also take care to keep my face averted rather than risk Edward seeing how I really feel. I am worried about Ian but I'm also worried about myself. Whatever the reasons behind his behavior, I'm at risk of shattering.

But not here, not in front of anyone, especially not him. Pride and an instinct for survival both demand that I not let him know how much he can hurt me.

I hold myself together well enough during the drive back to the house. But once there, in the privacy of my bedroom, I surrender to the storm of emotion the day has brought. I have scarcely cried since awakening that but I make up for that now. My tears soak the pillows. By the time they sputter out, I truly do have a vicious headache.

At some point, I revive enough to strip off my clothes and stand in the shower briefly before crawling back into bed. I pull the covers up over myself as though they can somehow shut out the world.

It is still dusk beyond the tall windows when Adele comes to check on me. She opens the door softly and peers in but I deliberately keep my eyes closed, hoping she will think that I am asleep. After a moment I hear her soft sigh as she departs.

Deceiving my grandmother leaves me feeling even worse about myself but I can't regret it. I'm simply not up to dealing with anyone just then. The night pa.s.ses with aching slowness. I drift through long periods of wakefulness interspersed with dreams of Ian that are arousing and disturbing in equal measure.

At one point, lying wide awake on my back staring up at the canopy of the bed, I wonder if this is what it feels like to be adrift at sea, tossed helplessly between remorseless waves with no refuge in sight. The stark truth strikes me. I want Ian to be my refuge and to be his in turn.

Yet I fled from him twice at the palazzo. Once when he told me the truth about myself and again when he seemed not to care if I stayed or went. Each time I had provocation but that doesn't mean what I did was right for either of us.

The last stars are winking out when I come to the realization that I have to choose. Move on with my life without him. Or stand my ground, refuse to be controlled by fear, and fight for what I want.

My eyes are still red and the headache hasn't let go but I can feel the beginnings of hope. And rather more to the point, of a plan.

Chapter Twenty-three.

Amelia A week later, I have to face facts. Whatever I thought I would be able to accomplish when I saw Ian again isn't going to happen. He has stopped appearing at any of the exhausting round of social events that I've forced myself to attend. To all intents and purposes, he has vanished.

Adele and Marianne have not. In our frequent encounters, I get no indication that they're at all worried about him. Surely, if he were ill or suffering unexpected aftereffects from the blow he received they would know?

I tell myself that rather than care so much about his well-being, I should be angry at him both for his behavior in the Rolls and afterwards. Instead, I can only hope that he really is all right. My foolish weakness turns my anger inward and leaves me even more confused.

If he is well, what accounts for his absence? Is it just that having withdrawn from me, he no longer has any reason to endure the social round? That is the simplest explanation but it is as frustrating as it is painful.

I struggle to take an interest in the activities going on around me but as the Ian-less days pa.s.s that becomes increasingly difficult. Only with Sergei do I manage to remain focused and then only because he won't tolerate any such lapses. However, he does comment on the deepening shadows under my eyes and even goes so far as to remind me that I need to eat.

"Your body is your instrument," he says sternly. "If you fail to care for it properly, you cannot expect it to do as you wish."

I take that to heart and I do try but as one day fades into the next, the world takes on a gray sameness that makes me feel as though I am moving through a sea of static, unable to really think or act.

Finally, I'm reduced to seeking news of Ian on the private link. As soon as I start searching, I'm bombarded by photos and videos taken at a slew of social events. None has drawn more attention than the polo match. It is still the subject of excited comment and debate.

I briefly view one of the many videos but stop when I realize that I can't bear witnessing Ian's barely controlled aggression yet again. Instead, I look at the photos, searching in particular for images of him after I left the reception.

Unfortunately, I find them. In photo after photo, he is shown in conversation with a variety of young women, all vying for his attention. He looks relaxed, somewhat amused, not at all tense and angry as he was with me.

I move on quickly, looking at pictures taken during the game of people in the stands. Adele and I are in many of these. In most, I'm controlling myself well enough to appear calm. But in several, it's starkly evident how dismayed I was.

Only gradually do I look at the people who were seated around us. Because of the intensity of the game, I really hadn't noticed them before. To my surprise, I discover that Davos was sitting just one row back and slightly to the right of me. In none of the pictures is he watching the action on the field. Instead, he's looking at me.

I want to believe that I'm mistaken but there are dozens of the photos and they all carry the same message. As repellant as the thought is, Davos gives every sign of having transferred his interest in Susannah to me.

But why? How much does he suspect? What does he know?

As much as I don't want to do anything to worry my grandmother or brother, I can't keep this to myself. The anxiety is simply too great. Unfolding myself from the couch where I've been sitting, I go in search of Edward.

Despite the late hour, he's in his office toward the back of the house overlooking the garden. The global financial markets never sleep, which means that Edward often doesn't either. He looks as handsome as ever sitting behind the large burled chestnut desk but I can't help noticing that he also appears weary and tense.

When he sees me standing at the door, he gestures for me to enter. A few moments later, he ends the call he was on and gives me his attention.

"I thought you'd be asleep by now," he says. "Or did this evening's engagement leave you with an excess of energy?"

Since I intervened to stop the officers from beating the young man, Edward has been a bit wary of me. I can't blame him. The experience still haunts me but even more, it has raised my awareness to a degree that I cannot ignore.

Only this evening, returning to the house with Helene, I noticed the drones flying low in the sky over the northern part of the city. I have seen them before, of course. They are always on patrol overhead. But there were more than usual and they were more concentrated, suggesting that an incident was underway.

I can't help but wonder if more people were being beaten or even worse. I could check the link for news but what pa.s.ses for that is so shaped and spun as to be nothing more than propaganda. Useful for those who want to know how they are supposed to think. Not at all helpful to those of us who prefer to think for themselves.

"The recital," I reply as I take the chair across from my brother, "was exceedingly boring. It turns out that I have a low tolerance for Victorian oratorios. After awhile, they all sound alike."

"Then I don't regret missing it," he says with a smile. Leaning back in his chair, he studies me for a moment before he asks, "Who else was there?"

"The usual." I pause a beat before adding, "Marianne asked after you."

Edward raises a brow. "Did she?"

He's silent for a moment. His eyes take on a thoughtful light in which I glimpse what might be a hint of wistfulness.

Softly, he says, "She's very young."

I can't resist the urge to tease him a little. "She's twenty-two, the same age as me. But I can understand why you consider that young given that you're an ancient twenty-eight."

He shoots me a chiding look. "She's led a very sheltered life."

"At the center of a decadent society." As new as I am to the city, I have no illusions about its nature. "She is hardly ignorant or nave. That she chooses to be selective in what she experiences is a testament to her character and judgment, both of which I believe to be exemplary."

My brother's smile deepens. "You are her advocate."

"I am her friend," I say.

Whatever has happened between Ian and me doesn't change that. Marianne is a lovely young woman, more than worthy of my brother's attentions. But he's going to have to come to that realization for himself.

"If you want to know what Marianne is thinking or feeling," I continue, "why not ask her yourself?"

He shrugs. "Why not indeed? But enough of that. What has you awake at this hour?"

I push the link across the desk to him. It's still open to the photographs of Davos in the stands.

"These. Would you take a look and tell me what you think?"

He barely glances at them before he shrugs. "Don't worry about this. Ian and I are keeping tabs on him."

My heart gives a little lurch at the mention of that name. I do my best to conceal it but I can't hide my surprise. "Does that mean there's cause for concern?"

"There is cause to take reasonable precautions," Edward counters. "Davos has an unsavory reputation and the fact that he appears to have had some interest in Susannah is troubling. But it would be a mistake to read too much into this. He'll realize quickly that you are well protected and beyond his reach."

I can't shake the impression that my brother is minimizing the situation in an effort to rea.s.sure me. But I'm far more focused on Ian's involvement.

"Is that all Ian's been doing?" I ask. "Looking into Davos?"

Edward hesitates. I understand that he doesn't want to hurt me but he manages to make matters worse when he says only, "Among other things."

I frown as I am left to wonder what that means. Before I can ask, Edward says, "It's late, Amelia. If you'll forgive me, I have some work that can't wait."

I take the hint but before I rise to go, I hear myself asking, "Did you know Marcus Slade?"

Edward frowns. His eyes, as blue as my own, darken. "I encountered Ian's father on occasion but we were hardly well acquainted. Why do you want to know?"